I think I spend most of my life running.
Not from people.
Not from responsibilities.
Not even from problems.
I run from my feelings.
All of them.
Sadness. Fear. Grief. Anxiety. Loneliness.
Anything that asks to be felt.
So I keep myself busy.
Work. Gardening. House projects. Shopping. Computer games. Planning things. Fixing things. Growing things.
The strategy works surprisingly well.
Until it doesn’t.
Usually it happens when I’m driving.
There is nowhere to run while driving.
No distractions. No tasks. No emails. No gardening. No cleaning.
Just me and my thoughts.
And then they come.
The dark ones.
In my head, depression doesn’t feel like sadness.
It feels like a black liquid.
Thick. Heavy. Almost like honey.
One small thought appears, and this black thing starts spreading.
Slowly at first.
Then it touches another thought.
And another.
And another.
Until everything becomes dark.
The future becomes dark.
The past becomes dark.
Even neutral memories become dark.
It’s as if depression puts black ink into every corner of my mind.
The strange thing is that I understand exactly what’s happening.
I know why I’m anxious.
I know why I’m depressed.
I know where many of these feelings come from.
I can analyse them endlessly.
I can explain them.
But understanding something and living through it are not the same thing.
I know I need to grieve.
I know I need to mourn.
I know I lost things that can never really be replaced.
But instead of feeling it, I block it.
And then I wonder why it keeps returning.
Recently I stopped taking antidepressants.
Not because I felt ready.
Not because I made some brave decision.
I simply ran out.
I moved. I got a new GP. A prescription disappeared somewhere between systems and people.
And then my social anxiety stepped in.
You’d say, “Just call.”
But for some people, “just call” is not simple.
For some people, picking up the phone feels like climbing a mountain.
And now I’m watching what happens without medication.
I don’t know how this experiment ends.
Maybe badly.
Maybe not.
We’ll see.
People often tell me I’m strong.
I don’t really agree.
Being strong would probably mean asking for help when I need it.
Being strong would probably mean fighting for myself.
Some days I’m not fighting.
Some days I’m just trying not to drown.
If you met me in person, you probably wouldn’t think any of this.
You’d see someone smiling.
Talking.
Working.
Making jokes.
Looking perfectly functional.
That’s the thing about depression.
Depression doesn’t always look like sadness.
Sometimes it looks like a person who is doing everything they’re supposed to do.
A person who gets up, goes to work, pays bills, buys groceries, talks to friends and keeps moving.
A person who says they’re fine.
And maybe that’s why we should be gentler with each other.
Because we never really know what someone is carrying.
Sometimes the loudest battles are completely silent.
And sometimes the person who looks okay is simply very good at hiding the storm.
That’s not strength, it’s survival.
The Imperfect Week 
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